The Hepburn

by Jan Westcott

 

Part I
Chapter 1

It was late afternoon. The hills cut off the sun and laid shadows over the plain and valley of Sauchieburn.

The burn itself idled along between tree-lined banks. It was only a mile from Stirling, where the pointed towers of the castle rose, only two miles from the river that emptied into the Firth of Forth, on rather high ground that now in June was dressed in the beauty of a Scottish spring. Here, on the banks of Sauchieburn, the battle which had been fought this day was almost over.

North of the field of battle, on a hillside from which he could see the bitter fray, James the Third of Scotland watched. His knights had been with him; he had sent them away. An hour ago there had still been a chance for victory, and he had sent them in to bolster the falling Highland line. But now there was no chance of victory.

He was alone. In his heavy old-fashioned armor, he sat astride his gray horse on the hillside, while below him the rebel armies drank thirstily the victory that was theirs, and the clear water of the burn ran red with the blood of the loyal knights and burghers.

Clumsily he lifted the reins. He must get a good start now, while a few barons fought on. He would escape. There were certain places in which he might find sanctuary. From one of these places he would gather forces enough to meet his son once more in battle. His son, who had betrayed him.

"I call a curse on him," he said evenly, under his breath. He turned his horse. Lord Gordon had told him he had brought him the best horse in Scotland, if he would but sit it well. Even his loyal barons like George Gordon had laughed at his horsemanship.

Escape lay before him. He could of course find it in England, but the border lay between him and England, and he could never pass through. He must go north, to the Highlands.

Gradually he urged his animal into a steady canter and then into a full gallop. The great flying hooves dug into the soft earth, and the steady sound of the rhythmic gallop was the sweet refrain of escape. Escape and newer battles.

He came to an old road. Along the river it wound. He could not cross the river here, but three miles farther up there was a bridge.

There were few houses. The road narrowed again, widened, and in the distance he could see the outline of a large mill. That meant he was coming to Milltown.

The road curved suddenly. It ran past an old fence and Beaton's mill. James thundered on; he rounded the curve and Dame Beaton, who was drawing water from the well, looked up at his approach, startled. The horse was almost upon her. She screamed in terror, flung down her pitcher and fled.

The horse swerved madly; the pitcher rolled right under the flying hooves. And the king, poor horseman that he was, pitched forward in his armor and fell heavily to the ground. His horse galloped on, riderless.

Dame Beaton peered fearfully into the road. The king was lying motionless. She raised her voice to call her husband.

This was unnecessary. He had heard her first scream, and he was coming at a run. "What ails you, dame?" he asked, panting.

"Look." She pointed. She followed him more slowly as he ran to the side of the fallen man. He knelt beside him. So did Dame Beaton.

"Are ye hurt, sir?" she asked.

There was no answer.

"He has swooned," she said to her husband.

Between them, with the dame struggling for breath, they carried the wounded man into the mill and laid him on the floor, flat. Dame Beaton ran for her second-best cordial, for this man was a gentleman. She could see that.

"He was a poor rider," she said to Beaton, as she knelt again beside the hurt man. "The fall has hurt him, I warrant. Only the fall." She held the cup to his lips and poured a little of the liquid into his mouth.

James opened his eyes. He tried to drink, but it was difficult. "Loose this," he muttered, feeling at his chest. "I am dying," he said weakly.

Dame Beaton threw up her hands. "Merciful God," she cried. "No, you are not. Who are you, sir?"

His low voice answered her. "This day at morn, I was your king. Fetch me a priest, dame. I must make confession."

Dame Beaton uttered another loud cry. She gasped to her husband, "Watch your liege! It is he! I know it is!" She ran out of the still open door, clasping and unclasping her hands. She ran out of the mill yard, and into the road that led to the near-by village.

"A priest," she shouted. "A priest, you good people! Hear me!" She picked up her flowing skirts and ran on. "A priest," she called.

There were horsemen coming down the road. She scrambled to one side, but the village was near now, and she kept crying loudly, "A priest! A priest!"

The horsemen were coming fast. They were coming in pursuit of a single man who had fled. The thunder of the hooves almost drowned out Dame Beaton's cries, but not quite. One of the men slowed down, and twenty feet further he checked his horse. He wore the flowing garments and cassock of a man of the church. Dame Beaton saw him.

"Father!" she cried. She picked up her skirts again and rushed toward him. "God has sent you," she panted. "The Almighty has sent you!"

He had halted the men with him. He bent down in the saddle. "What say you, dame?" he asked curtly.

"A man is dying," she burst out. "He is dying, and has asked for you."

"Where?"

She pointed to the mill. "My husband is there. Hurry, Father. Hurry!" "Why?" asked the priest. "Who is this man?"

She started to speak, but then held her tongue. "I do not know. But go!"

The priest turned away. She watched the men with him ride up to the mill door; she watched in the distance as the priest entered alone. She was out of breath, and she could not hurry.

Inside the dimly lighted mill, James lay. The priest entered, his gown swinging around his heels. He sent Master Beaton away; he went on his knees beside the wounded man. Was it he whom he sought?

The king's helmet had been removed. His thick hair was rumpled and his forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes hardly open. When the priest knelt beside him, he looked up.

"Father," he whispered, "I die."

"My son," the priest said slowly. "Ah, my son." He bent his head, and from beneath his cassock he drew a long knife. The king's armor was old. Across his chest it was fastened loosely, and there was a big chink in it. The priest, who was called Borthwick, saw the chink plainly.

The armor parted easily. The knife was driven sharply and cleanly, and withdrawn just as swiftly. James's eyes closed; the priest took the helmet, slipped it over the dead man's head, and pulled the visor closed. Then he wrapped the cloak close around the body of his king. He stood up just as Dame Beaton put her head in the door.

"He has passed," he said mournfully. "Will you summon my men?"

The men shouldered their way into the old dark mill. Under the priest's eyes they picked up the dead man and carried him from the mill house and bore him away. In the mill yard some of the men lingered, and the dame went quickly into the house and shut the door.

"Stay away from the window," she cautioned her youngest daughter. She was shaking with fright. "This is naught for poor folks to know," she muttered. She was worried about her husband, out there with that ruffian crew. "That was no priest," she said. "No priest."

There was only one man she could trust to help her. She still breathed fast. "We must tell our lord, The Hepburn."

 

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